Mask of Dragons (23 page)

“The secret church!” said the Prophetess, and a hint of scorn entered that smooth voice. “There is no secret church, Basracus. You do not listen. Why would anyone who has heard the word of the goddess forsake her truth for the bloodless shadows of the Amathavian church?” 

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Basracus.

The Prophetess overlooked the cynicism. “I require the Horn of Doom and Fate to complete my task, and therefore you shall give it to me at once.” 

Basracus leaned back in the throne, glancing back and forth between the Prophetess and Rigoric. “And if I do not?” 

For a moment silence ruled in the throne room, the Prophetess and Basracus staring at each other. Mazael glanced at Romaria, but she gave a shake of her head. The Prophetess’s back was to them, and Mazael doubted that she was wearing armor beneath that black robe. One arrow through the chest would kill her. Yet she had warded herself against attack, which was probably a wise precaution when dealing with Basracus. Of course, those kinds of warding spells were usually proof against steel and wood, not flesh and blood. If Mazael could get close enough to the Prophetess and get his hands around her neck…

He supposed Adalar would be appalled by the unknightly task of throttling the Prophetess to death, but Adalar would get over it. 

“A challenge, then,” said the Prophetess. “Perform one simple task, and I shall permit you to keep the Horn.”

“And what is this task, pray?” said Basracus, raising his eyebrows.

“Sound it,” said the Prophetess. "Sound the Horn." 

Basracus said nothing.

“You understand the concept?” said the Prophetess. “Take the Horn, lift it to your lips, take a deep breath, and blow into it. It should generate a rather loud wailing noise. I trust that this is within your capabilities?” 

“You know full well,” said Basracus, “that the Horn kills anyone who attempts to sound it. Rather painfully, too, if the legends are true. I cannot bring an army to march beneath the goddess’s banner if I am dead.”

“Then since you cannot use the Horn,” said the Prophetess, “you shall have no objection if I take it with me.”

“Damn it,” snarled Basracus. “Fine. Take the damned thing. Why do you need it, anyway? If you wanted to kill yourself there are easier ways to go about it.” 

“What do you think the Horn does?” said the Prophetess. 

“You know that as well as I do,” said Basracus. “According to legend, it summons up the souls of the dead and binds them to serve whoever sounded the horn. Except that is a legend, because as I have said repeatedly, the Horn kills anyone who sounds it.” 

“An interesting tale,” said the Prophetess.

Basracus scoffed. “What are you going to do with it? Force that outlander brat of yours to sound it?”

Mazael saw Sigaldra stiffen from the corner of his eye. 

“Both are necessary for the return of the goddess,” said the Prophetess. 

Basracus smirked. “She is a pretty little thing. What, fifteen, sixteen years old? Old enough to satisfy a man. You ought to lend her to me for a night. I promise I shall put her to good use.”

If Sigaldra’s glare had been capable of killing, Basracus would have fallen over dead in that moment. 

“The goddess requires,” said the Prophetess with a hint of asperity, “that the girl remain a virgin.” 

Basracus smiled. “What that goddess doesn’t know won’t hurt her, will it? And there are ways she could remain a virgin while I…”

“You and your carnal urges,” said the Prophetess, making no effort to disguise her contempt. “You are ruled and enslaved by them. You have seen the angels of the goddess and heard her messenger, and still you wallow in your filth? When the goddess comes, perhaps terror of her shall bring you to wisdom…or you shall die in horror and shame at your depravity.” 

“I doubt that very much,” said Basracus with a smile, “but I’m willing to put it to the test.”

“Enough,” said the Prophetess. “I will depart with the messengers of the goddess tomorrow, and we shall make for Dragon’s Gate. When I return…”

“If you return,” said Basracus. “Most of those who have gone to the Veiled Mountain have never returned.” 

“They did not understand the Veiled Mountain or the Dragon’s Gate,” said the Prophetess. Mazael wondered what the Veiled Mountain was. He had assumed that the Dragon’s Gate was another mountain pass, like the Weaver’s Pass. He wished that he had thought to ask Basjun or Hirune. “I do. I shall make them instruments of the goddess, to assist in her return.” 

“If you do not return…” said Basracus.

“If I do not return,” said the Prophetess, the exasperation returning, “you shall undoubtedly loot the treasury and make war upon the neighboring chieftains until one of them has you assassinated. Fear not, though. I shall return, and I shall be the herald of the goddess.” Her voice slipped back into the cadences of her sermon. “She shall return, and all the world will tremble in fear of her, and in their terror, men shall relearn virtue. Even you, Basracus. Even you shall know fear and discover virtue, whether you wish it or not.” 

Basracus rose from the throne and offered her a sardonic bow. “Then I wish you good fortune, Prophetess. I suggest you hurry. Our forces have encountered setbacks in the Grim Marches, and that madman Mazael Cravenlock is likely preparing to march upon us, now that you have irritated him. I…”

“Enough,” said the Prophetess. “I have wearied of your voice, Basracus. Have the Horn of Doom and Fate brought from the vault and placed with my baggage. I shall take it with me when we depart for the Dragon’s Gate tomorrow. I will withdraw to my chambers to rest. Only disturb me for an emergency.”

“But…” started Basracus.

“You have your commands,” said the Prophetess. “Carry them out. Rigoric. Come.”

The Prophetess glided away, the black robe and cloak swirling around her like a shadow. Basracus scowled at Rigoric, who stared right back, his bloodshot eyes glinting within the mask of sword blades. Then the Champion followed his mistress to a door beneath the balcony, and both of them disappeared from sight. For a moment Basracus stood motionless before the throne, scowling after them.

“Bitch,” he announced at last, and then he stalked away.

Silence fell over the hall once more.

“They’re gone,” said Romaria in a whisper. “I think we can talk, but quietly. Before we were interrupted, I was going to say that I saw some powerful warding spells that way.” She pointed to the left, towards the end of the balcony, where a wooden door stood in the stonework. “Those are likely the Prophetess’s chambers.” 

“This Veiled Mountain of hers,” said Mazael. “Any of you recognize the name?”

“I heard it a couple of times in the common room of the Guesthouse,” said Adalar. “Some men mentioned it as a landmark. I suspect it is some distance north of Armalast.” He hesitated. “One of them said their chieftain could ‘go to the Veiled Mountain’ for all he cared. I suspect it was a curse.”

Mazael shook his head. “I wish I had thought to ask Basjun.”

“None of that will matter,” said Sigaldra, “when the Prophetess is dead.”

“No,” said Mazael, his thoughts stirring with unease. “But the more we know about our foe, the better our chances of victory. Timothy. Did you remember where you had seen her before?”

“I fear not, my lord,” said Timothy. “But I have seen her before, I’m certain of it. In Travia, years ago. If I could just get a good look at her face without that cowl…”

“You can look all you want,” said Sigaldra, “when the Prophetess is dead. We can even cut off her damned head and take it with us back to the Grim Marches.” 

That was an excellent point.

“Come,” said Mazael, straightening up. The great hall remained deserted, and nothing moved save for the flickering shadows cast by the torches. “Let’s finish this.”

He crossed the balcony and eased the door open, finding himself in another corridor that looked as if it had been built for giants. Here and there more torches burned upon the walls, the light pooling in the rough stonework. The citadel so far had looked dusty and ill-kept, and Mazael wondered how many servants it took to keep all those damned torches lit.

“They’re magical,” murmured Romaria in response to his unspoken question. “A minor spell. One of the priestesses likely worked it.” 

“Pity we cannot burn the place down upon the Prophetess’s head,” said Mazael. 

They moved down the corridor, weapons raised. Mazael heard the faint creak as Romaria set an arrow to her bow, starting to draw back the string so she could shoot quickly. Adalar prowled at Mazael’s side, his greatsword ready. Mazael had always thought the greatsword a cumbersome weapon, but like his father before him, Adalar wielded the thing with skill. Like Romaria, Sigaldra held her bow, and Timothy had some kind of spell ready, the air flickering and vibrating around the fingers of his left hand. 

Five of them, against the Prophetess and Rigoric. Would that be enough? 

It might be, but only if they took the Prophetess by surprise and cut her down quickly. She might not have possessed the raw power of someone like Malavost or Lucan Mandragon, but she was nonetheless a deadly wizard. If she brought her spells to bear, the battle would quickly turn in her favor.

No. Best to kill her as swiftly as possible.

A wooden door stood at the end of the corridor, a massive slab of pine planks bound in bands of iron. Mazael stepped to the door, listening at the jamb, but heard nothing.

“Through there,” whispered Romaria. “I think the warding spells are on the other side of the next room.”

Timothy worked a quick spell. “There are no wards upon this door, my lord.” 

Mazael nodded, gripped the handle with his left hand, and pulled the door open. It swung on silent hinges. Beyond he found a small dining hall, the ceiling supported by more thick pillars of rough-cut stone. A narrow wooden table ran the length of the hall, ringed by high-backed chairs. Hearths stood on either wall, both of them dark and cold, and the only light came from a pair of torches attached to opposite pillars. Tapestries in somber colors hung between the pillars, thick and heavy and dusty. On the far wall of the room stood another door, and it glowed with a pale blue light. 

The door to the Prophetess’s chambers. 

“I’ll go first,” said Mazael in a low voice. “Adalar, stay with me. The Prophetess might have dismissed her wards so she can sleep. If not, she will have warded herself against steel, not flesh, so hit her if you can. Romaria, Sigaldra. If Rigoric tries to intervene, shoot him. Timothy, use whatever spell you think best. Attack as swiftly as you can, all of you. Our best chance for victory lies in speed.”

The others nodded, preparing their weapons. Mazael took a deep breath, starting across the dining hall, Adalar at his side.

“Mazael!” said Romaria. 

He stopped, wondering why the devil she had shouted, and then a shadow moved along the hall’s ceiling. 

Mazael spun, raising Talon, and saw the black shape hanging overhead. 

It was a huge, hulking spider, far larger than the creatures the Skuldari had ridden into battle. The creature crawling along the ceiling was to them as a hunting wolf was to a dancing puppy. It moved with the dangerous grace of a lion, its narrow body armored in black chitin, its legs like the blades of massive swords. A large crimson blotch, like a crude hourglass, marked the gleaming obsidian-like chitin of its thorax. Its eyes shone like dying coals, and a peculiar shimmering haze surrounded the creature.

It was a spirit creature, a Crimson Hunter, the progenitor of the spiders the Skuldari used as cavalry. The Prophetess had summoned them during the final battle at Greatheart Keep, and Mazael and his companions had defeated them. But Riothamus had been there to lend his powers to the battle. The Crimson Hunters were immune to normal steel, much as the runedead had been, and only the Guardian’s magic had allowed them to strike the Crimson Hunters. 

Which meant Mazael was the only one carrying a weapon that could harm a Crimson Hunter.

He supposed it was obvious in hindsight that the Prophetess would have summoned a guardian to watch over her as she slept.

The giant black spider leapt from the ceiling in silence, legs raised to stab Mazael.

Chapter 12: Games

Mazael threw himself to the side, and the Crimson Hunter just missed him, its legs striking the floor with a sound like arrows rebounding from a stone wall. He rolled, sprang back to his feet, and twisted around, Talon blurring in a slash before him.

It was the only thing that saved his life.

The Crimson Hunter shot forward, moving far faster than its bulk should have allowed, two of its legs striking at Mazael. Talon’s wild slash intercepted the flailing legs, and though the impact knocked Mazael back a step, he nonetheless kept his feet. Talon’s blade bit into the Hunter’s legs, and the creature rocked back. Mazael recovered his balance and attacked, swinging Talon for the giant spider’s head. It danced back with eerie grace, and Adalar struck, his greatsword impacting against the rear of the Crimson Hunter’s abdomen. The weapon struck the obsidian carapace and rebounded without a scratch. The Hunter hadn’t even bothered to dodge the blow.

“Don’t!” said Mazael. “You can’t hurt it!” He didn’t dare take his eyes from the Crimson Hunter. “Only magic can wound it!” He attacked, and the Crimson Hunter moved to the side to avoid the blade, kicking aside the long table. The table flipped end over end and struck the wall with a shattering crash. Mazael lunged as the Crimson Hunter recovered its balance, and his blade score a gash behind the creature’s head. The giant spider spun, its legs lashing out, and one of the segmented limbs whipped across his chest. The impact knocked Mazael back, and he hit one of the hearths with a grunt, the breath exploding from his lungs.

The Crimson Hunter closed on him, and Timothy cast a spell, the air around his fingers rippling. A blast of psychokinetic force hit the Crimson Hunter, knocking it off balance, and instead of Mazael’s chest, its pincers closed upon the side of the hearth with enough force to rip chunks from the stone.